


Fly Away Home

by Glittermonkey (Schizanthus)



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Bugs, M/M, lots of bugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus/pseuds/Glittermonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little reflection on innocence, accountability, relationships, freedom, identity, acceptance, and the like... in the form of a PBS nature special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly Away Home

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to ff.net back in 3/15/2001.

KENSINGTON GARDENS -- AFTERNOON -- 1974

Happiness is a disease. A drug. A parasite. An artificial state created by a series of biochemical reactions in your brain. It hooks you with honeyed whispers and tinkling laughs, dulls your senses and smooths the edges. It slowly sands away all the details, leaving behind a pretty plastic picture to frame for the living room mantle. Happiness is an illusion.

\-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Back in primary school, we used to organise ladybird hunts every spring. The local gardeners, ranging from fragile old rose-tending ladies in their widely brimmed straw hats to pot-bellied farmerly types growing hops in the back for home brewing, would give us two shillings each for a brown paper lunch sack full of brightly coloured beetles. We made quite a profit, all told, and got to run wild through what little green acreage was still left in the otherwise urban sprawl of central Birmingham. A misplaced tribe of intrepid aborigines, dressed in somber navy blue boys' school uniforms.

Typically, we'd go after classes let out, late in the afternoon when the sun had warmed the earth and the ladybugs sat like fat, glistening drops of blood on virid blades of grass. They were easily sighted and caught because they didn't flit away in the manner of butterflies at the first sign of danger. Instead, they had the most convenient habit of freezing and playing dead. You had to pick them off carefully, like the most delicate of fruit, usually taking a handful of the surrounding plants with you in an effort to avoid crushing or alarming them. Either action would leave your hand covered in foul, yellowish, bitter-smelling fluid which took hours of soap to wash away. It wasn't uncommon for the more experienced collectors to go home with half a mason jar full after a day's work. 

Sometimes, if we could sneak out of our homes quietly enough to avoid doing weekend chores, we would go on Saturday mornings just after dawn. This usually happened more in the early months, when there was still a chill in the air and you'd venture outside shivering rather than admit to your mates that you needed a jumper. Stamping through knee-high wild grasses, the dew would soak through the thin leather of your shoes, leaving your socks uncomfortably damp so that your confined toes felt like steamed prunes for the majority of the excursion. 

These mornings were different from haphazard afternoon harvests, though. We were on the track of bigger game, jackpots which would yield weeks' worth of profit in a single hit. During the autumn, lady beetles crawl to overwintering sites where a few to several hundred will gather in an aggregation. There they stay, motionless in their hibernation, until the temperatures start rising again and they emerge to feed. They disperse slowly, though, and it is often possible to pinpoint the bigger nests by keeping watch of the numbers and sluggishness of the beetles in the areas surrounding likely locations.

Pairing off in twos and threes, then, we'd cover our chosen territory, scouring close to the ground with an eye to hidden crevices and hollows that provided shelter from wind and sun alike. We searched, ever mindful of the rapidly approaching beams of sunlight which would warm our quarry and send them scuttling off before they could point the way. Inspecting the craggy bases of ancient trees, scouting along miles of fence rows, prospecting under crumbling fallen branches, piles of spidery decaying leaves and stacks of lichen-covered rocks, hours would often go by unnoticed in this protracted game of hide-and-go-seek. We usually managed to turn up at least one colony on these outings, and the spoils would be divided amongst us, with the original discoverers claiming the largest shares. We'd be home before noon.

Childhood. Freedom, sunshine, harebrained schemes and camaraderie. 

It's funny how nostalgia works. I say "we" as if it were the most natural thing now. I never wanted to be a part of it all, really. Even as a child, I hated the prospect of getting dirty. I avoided the outdoors whenever possible. I had horrible allergies to pollen and absolutely detested anything with more than two legs. However, I was also single-mindedly bent on doing whatever the popular boys were doing, and would rather die than be left out. So, when they finally inducted me into their raffish little band with a quietly insistent knock on my bedroom window one fine April morning, damned if I wasn't going to shove aside my typical hangups and scramble over the windowsill to join them. 

But not before, I should mention, rummaging desperately around my entire room, plowing through piles of books and sheafs of papers, indiscriminately knocking items off shelves and desktop, in search of some sort of carrying receptacle for the activities ahead. The closest approximation I could find, without venturing into the kitchen to pilfer one of mum's jelly jars and possibly waking everybody up, was my pencil sharpener, which had a large metal canister attached to catch stray wood shavings. I grabbed it hastily and rushed to meet the others for my inaugural foray.

\-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

We've passed through the fairly nondescript tree-dotted northern walk and are now following the path parallelling the canal, leading down to the Serpentine. The unrepentant verdancy of this place never fails to amaze me, especially after a week of being locked away in cramped sound-proofed glass-walled cells. Curt spies something up the road and strides ahead to investigate. I anticipate his discovery with mild amusement. 

I catch up to him seconds later as he stares up at the sculpted elfin figure of Peter Pan, perched high and surrounded by attendant fairies and fauna. Something about this chance encounter brings a smile to my face. 

\-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Being that I was both the newest and the youngest initiate that year, I was anxious to make the best impression possible. There was the implication that this was more of a test than an invitation, and that they could easily dismiss me at any moment if I proved to be too much of a burden. It got even worse when the two eldest boys, as close to being ringleaders as one could get in that fundamentally structureless troupe, decided that I should stay in their company when it was time to scatter and track. It would be as much for their entertainment as my education.

I spent most of that morning at their beck and call, running ahead, crawling under and into assorted dank stygian dens, and wading through far more mud puddles than I had ever conjured up in my worst nightmares. It was quite clear that half the sites they instructed me to probe were chosen for no other quality than their complete and utter hellishness. It was a rite of passage, an evaluation of my willingness and endurance. An introduction to the side of life that I had taken such great pains to avoid, which they seemed to find so fascinating... nature, squalid, unrefined and true. We could sweep its fields, dig into its belly and sell it off in little pieces for pocket change, but we would not get away untouched. I gritted my teeth, looked straight into its grimily candid face, and recoiled. I hated it passionately.

An indeterminable time later, we finally rejoined the others, still empty-handed. I didn't feel particularly let down, not being quite sure what I would have done with a handful of insects, beneficial or not, anyway. It was enough that I had merely gone through with it. The others, though, had been luckier and were determined that I should share in their good fortune. Despite my protests, and perhaps to show that they thought me a good sport, they snatched away my makeshift jar, plunged it into a squirming cloth sack full of the little creatures, and handed it back to me. I accepted it as graciously as possible, holding it gingerly with only the tips of my fingers as I walked home, for all intents and purposes one of the gang.

\-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

We are headed eastward, into the gardens proper now. Curt wants to see the toy boats in their little pond. I promise him that we'll buy one to sail next time we're out this way. He likes the water. I should take him sailing on a real boat some day.

\-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Back at home and alone in my room, I stared down at the little cardboard box into which I'd dumped my remaining stock. I looked to the canister, then back to the box. I think I had a moment of distinct nausea. 

The blade. I'd forgotten about the blade.

I hadn't known. It should have been obvious enough, I suppose. Hadn't thought it through. It wasn't like I'd made it a hobby to thoroughly examine the mechanics of my school supplies. But even an idiot would have known that something designed to cut through wood and lead wasn't exactly harmless. Hadn't cared? It hadn't been a threat to me, personally, after all. It just hadn't seemed important at the time, honestly. Not as important as getting out of the house with as little hassle as possible. Wasn't my fault. Was it? 

Had they felt anything? Could they feel at all? Did they register any pain when the blade came slicing down through their crowded ranks with the closing of the lid? No escape. Did they scream when the razor's edge shattered their bright red shells and tore through their gossamer wings? Did the survivors flinch or cry when the cleft bodies and limbs of their companions rained down on top of them? By the time I had realised what had happened, it had been too late. 

No. Of course they couldn't have felt anything. They were insects. Insignificant. Devoid. Barely worth calling living creatures. 

So why had I felt so ill at the thought? 

Eventually, I took the box outside and dumped them in the yard. It was freedom, right? I left them there on the dirt, dazed and disoriented. I was sure they would be able to find their way back. 

Guilt. But would I have done it differently, if it had meant turning them down the gang that morning? No. It wouldn't have made a difference in the slightest, even if I had acknowledged what I was doing. No.

Had I felt guilt or had I merely registered that I should have felt guilt? My memory gets a little blurred on that point. 

\-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

We are sitting under the shade of a particularly large tree, just watching the people go by. The morning has already slipped away.

It is artificial. All of it. What had this land been before it was plowed under, reshaped, remade by human hands? Even the ground we're sitting on isn't supposed to be here; it was brought over from somewhere across the lake. It had all happened too long ago. Nobody knows, nobody cares. This is just as good, after all, isn't it? It's certain more useful, convenient, and aesthetically pleasing. Much more enjoyable than whatever weeds were growing rampant before, yes. And yet, it was never meant to be here. 

Three centuries ago, some inbred royal or another had a bad case of asthma. One day, he decided it might do him some good to get away from the smog. So this great expanse of park, populated by intricate gardens and paths, monuments and ponds, came into existence. Most entirely on whim. Species of plants from everywhere in the world, flawless stretches of grass, works of art that celebrate nature and life. All flourishing here as if it were their right, rather than a case of invasion.

I hear Curt babble something about climbing and dangling in trees like these when he was a kid in Michigan. It's nice to know that he might have had some moments of happiness back then. We usually don't talk much about it. I briefly wonder if he ever broke a limb doing it. 

I am happy right now. We're happy. This surprises me. How can that be? What are we missing from being so buried in what we've created? What are we ignoring, overlooking, letting swim away so that it will grow and fatten, coming back later to eat us alive? How much are we making up, glossing over without realising we're doing it? Why must there lurk, even in these most perfect moments of bliss, a sense of something terrible, something foreboding that might reach out and rip us to shreds? And if it does, will I be able to let go?

"Brian? You're not even listening to me, are you?"

I look over to him, feeling dazed. So fragile. Him, us, all of this. He is reclining in the grass, propped up on his elbows and quirking an eyebrow at me. I smile and shake my head.

"It's nothing. Sometimes my mind just wanders... in all this space."

"Yeah... it's nice."

I shrug. "I guess." 

I notice something on his shirt and lean in for a closer look. He shifts a bit, wondering what I'm up to. Shaking my head, I motion for him to hold still. I pluck a little red beetle off of his sleeve and show it to him. He blinks. I watch it crawl across my palm, then walk a few paces out of the shade and throw it up into the air. It spreads its wings and flies away. We follow it with our eyes until it is out of sight.

Pulling Curt to his feet, I impulsively give him a hug. He smiles at me in good-natured bafflement. Taking our time, we head back to the hotel for lunch.

-finis-

**Author's Note:**

> As can be seen by the first line, this is a response to the "Happiness is..." challenge from PBU, though the story was being tinkered with far before the challenge popped up. Turned out that it fit nicely.
> 
> Gratitude: To the very talented Eric, whose _Leaving_ first set me off on this particular train of thought many months ago. To Kate and Soph for research verification, and to Jenn, Briz and Ophie for being the test audience.
> 
> Just as a rough point of reference, Brian was seven years old in the year 1956. Lady beetles belong to the beetle family Coccinellidae which means "little sphere". There are probably as many as 4,000 species found world-wide. You will be tested on this later, and no, I do not grade on a curve. That is all. 
> 
> "Your house is on fire..."


End file.
